


Shut your wild eyes (with kisses four)

by Chimerari



Category: Cloud Atlas - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, POV Second Person, Porn with Feelings, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2013-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-06 01:12:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1100693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chimerari/pseuds/Chimerari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything else can wait, but will not</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shut your wild eyes (with kisses four)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Argyle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/gifts).



> Written for the prompt: Robert composes something for Sixsmith  
> while listening to this: [Unavoidable.mp3](http://www.4shared.com/mp3/9NPymd4Z/09_Unavoidable.html)

You wake to the sensation of fingers, tapping and gliding, coming back to a particular notch in your spine over and over.

It’s not a caress, you know his caresses: a thumb, mindlessly stroking your wrist, a nose, dragging over your shoulder, the easy charity of the adored. This is something far more purposeful, ragged edge of his nails catching in staccato succession.

 ‘Wha—‘ you try to look back, groggy with sleep. He smooths a palm over your nape.

‘Stay still.’

You do; powerless to the hint of steel in his voice.

The sheets are flung aside. He shifts up to his knees, half crouching. All you can see are the shadows over his ribs; too thin, always too thin, insomniac and famished when he’s in thrall of his muse.

The touch returns. Fingers mould to the dips of your naked back, pressing down sharply---twin chords, followed by a fanciful flight up and down the keyboard---you recognize that much at least, a musical oaf you may be. It used to sting, his dismissal, but then he’s never bothered with tact when music is concerned.

Withdrawing suddenly, he gnaws on a knuckle, letting out small frustrated sounds through his nose. Goosebumps rise up over your arms at the sensation of being looked at, being scrutinized and perhaps found lacking.

Damp breath ghosts over the tendon in your neck, a sigh. ‘I want…’

Your let your head loll to the side, eyes drifting shut.

‘Flute, pianissimo. Dragonfly wings atop a summer pond.’

It’s silly really, the leap of your heart. After all, you’ve shared so much already: cigarettes, clothes, bodies, breaths. But his music, certainly never.

The stubble on his jaw tickles terribly when he forgets to shave, and he never tires of making you squirm this way. ‘Xylophone. Strings of pearls for each of your shoulder blades.’

His fingers resume their course, gathering speed as he launches into ecstatic acrobatics. In your mind’s eye you see smudges of red blooming across your back, marks of a different kind to the ones you usually bear.

‘B-flat minor, crescendo. I want the soloist’s fingers to spasm, to bleed, and then---‘ you yelp in surprise as teeth sink into the tender flesh just above your hip. ‘Harpsichord. Oh maestro, drench the allegretti in colour, smother them.’

You grab fistful of the sheets, trying in vain to settle the tremor in your bones. He’ll have none of it, hands coaxing until you are face to face.

‘Why do you fight it so?’ brows knitted in confusion, in annoyance.

You tip your head back, swallowing thickly. It’s easy enough to brush off his ill temper, his bouts of infatuation with others. But the careless way he lays himself open in front of you pins you here, in his bed du jour.

He hovers, close enough to brush the tips of your noses together. Not for the first time you wonder if the view through such thick lashes becomes extraordinarily shadowed.

‘Rufus.’ A plea, a command. ‘let me in, let my music in.’

What choice do you have, besides giving up your body to him? Letting him slot limb against limb, pressing every note home.

‘Andante Espressivo.’ He draws a languorous line up your left calf. ‘Hate it when pimply violinist ham up the sentimentality. Ruins the whole thing.’ Cradling your hip in one hand, he grins down at you, wolfish. ‘But then, a man of science like you, Sixsmith, must know all about curbing the keener emotions.’

That one maddening finger climbs, nail scratching against the sensitive fold between thigh and buttock. You arch off the rickety bed, heels digging in. Sweat gathers at the back of your knees, the crook of your elbows, little pockets of chill as the curtain lifts.

Bypassing your cock completely, he flattens a hand over your straining belly, a teasing glint in those dark eyes.

‘Cello.’

You groan and twist away, cheeks heating. It was your one failed attempt in Gresham, in want of a common interest with your new found friend. The whole dorm snickered at your instrument of choice: almost as tall as you and three times as wide. Endless quips about any port in a storm, at least it had curves, ha!

‘F-sharp, hold it for four counts Rufus. No, six.’ drooping forward, voice sinking into a whisper. ‘You remember how to, don’t you?’

You kiss that cutting mouth, suck the smirk off the plump bottom curve.

Together you make the descent, him guiding and you following, clumsy with lust. Hands flutter uselessly over every inch of bared skin, the velvet softness of his groin. The hollow of his waist fits into your palm just so, slippery with sweat like some wild thrashing beast.

It will never do to tell him so, but you like it in the mornings; the faint sourness of sleep-warm skin, the sharpness of his armpits.  His smells constantly relearnt, something you could hoard and keep.

Mouth fever red, he sways to a rhythm in counterpoint to the one you’ve set, thighs tensing. The image of another Robert comes to you unbidden: stooped over a piano, shoulders jutting out with the sheer ferocity of his playing. The same long-sought exhilaration, the same revere furrowing his brow as he nears surrender.

And you bite down on a curse at the eternal third woman: the one that’s curled around his heart, leaching warmth from both of your skins.

You breathe the words (a name) into the flushed arch of his throat. He gasps, bucking as warmth spreads between you.

The kiss he presses to your mouth tastes like benediction, like the towering silence before the onslaught of applause.

 

 

‘And you say I can hold no more notes than Beethoven’s ears.’ You mumble into the top of his tousled head. The sweep of his lashes quiver in amusement. ‘Now what? You’re going to fold me up, put me in a drawer?’

‘Under lock and key.’

‘Is that how you treat all your compositions? Hide them from the world?’

He pillows the side of his face over your chest, signalling for silence. You obliges, amusing yourself with the thought that instead of cells, troupes of semiquavers and crotchets are marching to your extremities at this very moment, victorious.

‘Yes.’ He’s quiet for so long you thought he’s fallen asleep. ‘lest the world ruins the best part of me.’

**Author's Note:**

> This was written fairly last minute, the prompt just grabbed me by the neck and won't let go. Apologies in advance for any inconsistency  
> I do prefer book! Robert's sharp edges. So I kept some of that. But I don't think it matters if you've only seen the film  
> some terminologies, hopefully nothing too off-putting:  
> Pianissimo: very softly  
> Crescendo: plays with increasing volume  
> Allegretti: a movement/passage that's meant to be played at a brisk speed (lifted straight from the book, sorry to say;P)  
> Andante Espressivo: moderately expressive  
> Lastly, I know this isn't strictly a musical composition per se, but I hope you would enjoy it, dear recipient. Thank you for the inspiring prompt  
> [Tumblr me folks](http://rosengris.tumblr.com/)


End file.
